A Violet December
by newyorktopaloalto
Summary: It's 2012 and the economy has never been better in the US of A. The crime rate is down, and no one is starving in the streets. There's always a catch, though, and this is no different. How can you live, knowing the truth?  Mob!AU- rating may go up
1. Prologue

A/N: Prologue. So if things don't make sense now, they will in a few chapters.

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies, nor will I ever.

* * *

><p>Morris knew that he had once chance at this. One chance, and if it didn't work out, well, he wouldn't be there to wallow in the shame. The earpiece cracked as someone attempted to get through to him— no such luck unfortunately; back up would have been nice, but luck had never been on Morris' side.<p>

"Okay, time to do this," he muttered to no one, the gunshots falling on almost deaf ears as he steadied himself.

"On the count of three. One—"

He cocked his gun.

"Two "

He set it and turned around.

"Three."

Firing as he popped up from his hiding place, he shot almost blindly at his attackers. There was a moment of silence as his last shot rang out, his harsh breathing the only sound resonating throughout the warehouse.

Then—

"Nice try, copper. But guess again."

A click and he felt the barrel of a gun touch the back of his head.

"Bang, bang."

And he fell.

* * *

><p>"You can't just go around shooting police officers. The ties we have are perilous enough. You being dumb enough to shoot one of their own, point blank range of all things, may take us to our gaddamn tipping point!"<p>

He sighed after a second and rubbed at his temples.

"Blink, this isn't a game."

Blink snorted and picked at his nails, waiting for the 'reprimand' to be over with.

"Blink, look at me."

His head shot up and he turned around, ignoring Jack in favor of the speaking newcomer.

"Racetrack," he said, tipping his hat slightly.

"Good job," Race muttered, cocking his head— a sure sign for Blink to leave.

"What do you mean 'good job'?" Jack asked incredulously, eyes darting between the closed door and Race's slightly smug face.

"I mean what I said. He did exactly as I needed him to."

"And why didn't you tell me?"

Jack crossed his arms sternly against his chest and glowered down at Racetrack. He looked into Race's eyes for a second, before hesitantly darting them away. Flushing, he tried not to feel Race's smirk as the aura of it seemed to hit the back of his head.

"Need to know basis," Race finally said, voice soft, "You didn't need to know."

"Goddamnit, Race! I fuckin' run this family and you know—"

He trailed off as Race growled and took a step closer.

"You are a fucking figurehead, Jack Kelly. You are _the _most expendable person in this entire operation. And you know that."

He sighed and calmed himself down in a single inhale, shooting a wry smile at Jack.

"Don't try and punish people without me here next time, okay, Cowboy? Sends mixed signals and all, because you're always wrong."

He turned away and started walking, stopping only for a second as he heard Jack's question.

"Why did you need Morris Delancey killed?"

Racetrack grinned back at Jack, shrugged, and left the room.

The words, 'well, who's next for police chief?' rang through Jack's ears as he tried to figure out the significance.

What did Avery Anderson have to do with anything?

* * *

><p>"We got Rails," was the first thing Spot said to him when he answered the phone.<p>

"This could be bugged," Racetrack mused, sitting down and pulling out a notebook.

"Is it?"

"It could be, is all I'm saying."

He could practically see Spot rolling his eyes all the way over in Brooklyn.

"Anyways, you get Snitch?"

Racetrack hummed and murmured an affirmative, doodling little circles in the margins of the paper.

"Good, then we're set."

"Oh? When did Cat get Queens set up?"

"Just earlier. Literally an hour or two before you got it finished."

"That'll be suspicious."

"Nah," he could feel Spot smirking from across the radio waves, "Queens was suicide."

"Still… All of them in the span of three days?"

He heard Spot sigh from the other end and smirked the slightest bit. It was never really his intention to get on Spot's nerves, but he liked it when it happened.

"You worry too much, 'Track. You gotta chill out, you know? Hang out at one of your clubs or something."

Racetrack barked out a laugh.

"I think I'd have more luck relaxing while listening to Jack."

"Point."

He paused and Race imagined him deliberating with himself, eyes scrunched and face constipated looking.

"Come on down to Brooklyn, yeah? You, me, a couple of your guys, a couple of mine. We'll play a few rounds."

Race grinned. Indeed.

"Be there at eight," he said, laughing as he heard an 'I'm going to regret this,' before Spot hung up.

This would be fun.

* * *

><p>"So, who were you?"<p>

"No one important."

Police chief Avery Anderson sighed and gestured for the microphones to turn off.

"We can't do anything if you don't _tell _us anything," he said, giving a look to the kid, trying to get him to understand.

"I was a courier, that's all," the kid replied, wringing his hands.

"Snipeshooter. May I call you that?"

Without waiting for an answer, he continued.

"Snipeshooter, you came to us, the police, because you said you had information on the mob. We can't do anything for you unless you tell us your information. Got it?"

Snipeshooter nodded and looked up at Avery, tilting his head slightly.

"Can I talk to the chief?" he asked, voice young and scared.

"I _am _the chief."

And Snipeshooter started talking.

* * *

><p>"Bad news, boys, we got a leak."<p>

Spot turned from his cards and looked up at Race, who was texting furiously.

'How'd you figure that?"

"Raid. One of our warehouses."

"Shit, which one?" Spot asked, biting his lip the slightest bit— because of the news or his cards, Race didn't know.

"Down on 14th," race muttered, finally sitting down and rubbing unconsciously at his jaw.

"That's one of the best."

Racetrack nodded and tapped his fingers, wanting to be let into the next round.

"Who was it?"

"The leak?"

"No, the fuckin' Dali Lama. Of course the leak, 'Track."

"Snipeshooter."

Spot started to reply, then got a confused look.

"Never heard of him."

"He's a fucking courier, that's why."

And Spot started laughing. Mostly in pure humor, but a little bit of wariness as well. Looked like they would need to get better checks on their couriers. Ah well, such was life. Little snitch.

"He get any time?" Skittery asked, his nose scrunching up as Blue dealt the next round— Skittery didn't have the best poker face.

"Nah," Race replied, lighting a cigarette.

"Will anyone notice if he goes missing?"

Race smirked and shook his head.

"You wanna take care of that personally, Skitts?" he asked, folding his hand and then raising his eyebrow at the taller man.

Skittery nodded and declined the cigarette offered to him, as always.

"It'll be done by the end of the week. I have a couple of projects I have to do beforehand."

Race hummed and grinned as Skittery won the hand.

"Looks like your lucky week, eh, Skitts?"

"Seems to be."

"Just don't make it obvious, yeah?" Spot chimed in, dealing the next hand out.

"When do I ever?"

* * *

><p>Snitch sighed and shook his head, looking at the plans in his hand. Fuck if he knew what to do with all this. There was just so much of it, and none of it made any sense.<p>

"Hey, Racetrack," he mumbled into the phone as the phone clicked over, "can I get someone to take a look at all of this shit?"

"Who?" Race asked, voice wary.

"My friend. He knows this shit like the back of his hand. You honestly expected I could do anything with this?"

'Well, I was hoping you would," he heard Race mumble, the phone receiving static as Racetrack sighed, "and who is it?"

"Itey Casellas."

"Oh, yeah, we've used him before."

He paused and Snitch could feel the smirk on his face.

"Not surprised you know him."

"I know everyone. Connections and everything."

Racetrack laughed on the other end, and even Snitch deigned to let out a small smile.

"And that's why we have you."

"And that's why, indeed," Snitch repeated, hanging up without any other pretence— time to get work done.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Still don't own anything.

A/N: Finally, some action. If you're confused, I'm glad, because that's my intention.

* * *

><p>Avery Anderson needed a specialist. The guys in the damn symbols and coding department, or whatever it was called, couldn't do anything. The codes or glyphs or symbols or what the fuck ever, he of course, couldn't make sense of. After searching and searching and searching for the best, he finally found the guy he was going to call.<p>

"Gabriel Casellas?" he asked, the commissioner patched in as well, "it's police chief Avery Anderson."

"What can I do for you chief Anderson?" Gabriel asked— Avery could almost see the smirk.

"I need you to look at some code for the department, if you would."

"And what do I get out of it?"

"Immunity," the commissioner, Snyder, cut in.

"Be there tomorrow at noon."

Avery heard a sigh as soon as Gabriel hung up, and he wondered why the fuck Snyder would give the guy immunity if he didn't trust him. Well, maybe that was why.

"I think this is a bad idea."

"He's the best," Avery reminded him.

"He has mob connections."

"I doubt he would be working on something for the police _and _the mob at the same time. Besides," he paused— would going into this next part make Snyder even more paranoid?

"Besides," he finally said, "everyone in this day and age has mob connections. Be it an uncle or cousin or friend or your uncle's cousin's friend. We're all connected to the damn mob somehow.

"I urge you to think of how _you're _connected."

And with that he hung up on Snyder. God, he hated that man.

* * *

><p>"So…?"<p>

Skittery looked up from his mail and gave Racetrack a small smile.

"So what?" he asked, flipping through a magazine, musing about what to get his niece for Christmas.

"So, how'd it go?"

"The play? It was cute. I mean, it was acted out by a bunch of first graders, so it wasn't the Met or anything. Still, taped the whole thing for anyone who couldn't be there. Tumbler was absolutely darling."

"Yeah, where _is _the kid anyways?"

"At his mom's. Every other weekend with her, remember?"

"Right. I can change that, if you want."

Skittery gave Race a sharp glance.

"I don't want her dead."

"I know the judge."

"Tempting, but no. She doesn't hurt him, and he likes it well enough over there. Why not let him do it, yeah? If there ever comes a time when he hates it, then I give you permission to bribe city officials."

Race hummed and stood up, flicking through Skittery's mail despite the other man's protests.

"Anyways, I meant with Snipeshooter."

"Oh. Taken care of."

Skittery laughed as Racetrack gave him a surprised glance. He moved into the kitchen and threw the shorter man a beer, taking a glass of water for himself— he liked to keep himself lucid.

"I never leave a trace," he stated, dropping ice cubes into the glass.

"And that's why you're the best."

"And I kill anyone who gets close to becoming better."

Racetrack laughed and held his bottle up to Skittery.

"Salud."

"Salud."

* * *

><p>"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Spot demanded, storming into the office— rich in red and gold, it wouldn't be out of place for fucking Pulitzer or someone.<p>

"Hello to you too, Spot," Jack murmured, barely glancing up from his work.

"Do you know what I heard—"

"From your little birds?" Jack interrupted, finally taking his gaze away from his paperwork to smirk up at Spot.

"'Track is going to be furious when he finds out."

Jack smirked once more, the only thing giving him away was his licked lips.

"Like I can't handle him."

They both turned as they heard the front door slam shut. There was stomping and a second later, Race's stormy face appeared in the doorway.

"What the fuck did you do?"

"It looked like an accident. And _I _didn't do it."

Jack stood up and glowered down at Racetrack.

"You aren't the only one with friends, Race. And mine can destroy you."

For a second it was quiet, before Race let out a small chuckle. Spot, wanting to stay out of the inevitable crossfire, backed away to the wall. Race laughed for a moment more, before stepping up to Jack.

"You do something without my permission one more time, and I will not hesitate to kill you," Race murmured.

"Yeah, and what army?"

"My name is Anthony Dante Higgins, just saying that name will give me my army right there."

"I'm the head of the—"

He cut himself off as Race put a knife to his neck. Swallowing, Jack kept completely still as Race slowly let go of him, the shorter man keeping severe eye contact all the while.

"You are head of nothing."

Jack nodded and rubbed his neck as both Racetrack and Spot left. He watched them for a moment, until the only thing he could see was his blurred vision and an empty room.

Sitting at his desk, he buried his face in his hands. Jesus Christ. He refused, _refused, _to be a puppet anymore.

Jack Kelly was going to gain control of this family if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

><p>"So, what're you gonna do about him?" Spot asked, tapping the rails of the bridge during each step.<p>

"I dunno. Nothing, for now. I think, though, it's almost time for Anthony Higgins to actually take over."

"Very nice, I've been waiting for you to say that. It'll be fun actually working with you instead of having to look at Jack's smug face every day."

Race stopped and looked down over the water, noticing all the tourism around him. New York was a place of change, of adventure and of new beginnings. Growing up there, he had been almost deluded to think that he was exempt from those things.

"Time for me to grow up," he whispered, dropping a penny into the water below.

"Well, we all have to do it sometime," Spot agreed, dropping a penny as well.

"Now come on, let's plan what we're gonna do about Jacky boy."

* * *

><p>"So, do you know what you're going to do? Now that you're DA, I mean."<p>

"I think I'll go to Disney World," David murmured, placing his book on the shelf and taking his glasses off.

"How are you, Jack?"

Jack smiled and hugged David, spinning his friend around once before letting go.

"Congratulations."

"Yeah, thanks to you. Like I would have gotten this otherwise."

"Don't doubt yourself, you would have gotten it. You just got it a few years earlier than expected."

David hummed and nodded. After a second, he let out a barking laugh.

"Do you know what is _so_ funny to me?"

"What?" Jack asked, starting to sort books for David.

"How corrupted this city is. I mean, everyone, you know? Every single person is corrupted in some way. It's crazy to think about. No one is exempt, no one is defaulted."

"I hope you're not going law on me," Jack muttered, smile there, but tone deadly.

"Of course not. I am one of the most corrupted of them all. DA working for the mob. I can almost taste the irony."

"Maybe that's the wine."

David laughed and flopped in his chair. The wine, indeed.

"Speaking of…"

"Wine?"

"No," Jack said, shaking his head, "Corruption.

"Speaking of, what if I told you I have a proposition for you. It includes me, you, Anthony Higgins on death row, and a lot of the Family gone."

David glanced to the door, then back at Jack.

"I'm listening."

* * *

><p>"Jack Kelly's coming after you."<p>

It was late, 3:46 if Race's alarm clock was anything to go by. He yawned and stretched, his cat giving him an indignant look as she moved from his chest to the covers— and he really needed a girlfriend.

"What?" he mumbled to the person on the other end of the line, wishing he had a fucking phone tap with him; blocked numbers were the devil's work.

"Jack Kelly's coming after you; coming after the entire family. You need to get to him, before he can get to you."

The buzzing sound of the dial tone woke Race up fully, and he blinked in confusion. He _hated _mysterious 3am phone calls. They always involved him getting shot sooner or later. At that thought he rubbed his shoulder, the raised scar being the only indicator of his previous mysterious caller.

But this was worth looking at. Jack Kelly going after Anthony Higgins. Figurehead going after the real head. It was almost a melodrama.

And too realistic for comfort.

"Get a guy onto Kelly," he mumbled to Skittery, having had dialed the other's number almost unconsciously.

"Do you know what time it is? I have to wake up in three hours to take my kid to school. Jesus, Race."

"I don't care if the fucking President is coming. Get a guy on Kelly. And Meyers, and maybe Snoddy and Boots as well."

"Ah, Kelly's bunch. Something going on?"

"Watch your kid, too. Make sure he doesn't go anywhere alone."

"Is this a real threat or something?" Skittery asked, voice sounding almost frightened after Race's last statement.

"I dunno. But I'm going to treat it like one."

He hung up and got out of bed, making a little cooing noise to Isabella, who just meowed in protest and curled up in the warm spot his body left. Speaking of…

"Spot, I think we may have a problem," Race murmured to himself, getting dressed and ready to head over to Brooklyn.


End file.
